


You See It, Right?

by aidennestorm



Series: Daddy's Calling [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, POV Outsider, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8707549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: His gaze is caught by a blemish on Hamilton’s neck: roughly elongated, vaguely oblong, flushed wine red. “What is this?” he wonders aloud, and reaches to take a closer look.
 Lafayette may be drunk, but he's not blind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place shortly after [Headfirst Into the Abyss](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8445871).

The hallway is dark except for a faint outline of Lafayette's shadow, barely illuminated by the firelight spilling over his shoulder from the common area. It weaves in front of him and he raises an unsteady hand to wave, to catch the figure dancing in front of him, but his body tips. "Ah, _excusez-moi!_ " he scolds with a slight hiccup, clutching at the wall in an attempt to keep himself upright. "That was not gentlemanly of you!"

The shadow says nothing.

His eyes remain fixed on his boots as he stumbles across floorboards stained by muddy footprints. A fit of giggles overtakes him; the boards under his feet remind him of the dirty tavern table he left behind scarcely a few minutes previous: Tilghman and Laurens slumped over an assortment of empty mugs stinking of home-brewed ale, remnants of a friendly competition. His voice echoes in the cavernous silence when he announces giddily, “ _Les Américains_ , you do not know how to drink. Even the most potem—poter—best ale is no match for the Marquis de Lafayette!”

But through his giggles he has to gasp for breath, which turns into a dry heave. He claps his hand over his mouth and tries to calm himself by counting the doors until he reaches his quarters. _Un, deux—non, again, un, deux, trois—_

At the count of _cinq_ , he halts. Cautiously, he removes his hand from his lips and, when he is satisfied at the settling of his stomach, he turns the knob and pushes open the door to his room. What he expects is darkness, and quiet. What he sees through his drink-induced fog, though— “Hammie?”

Hamilton whirls, slight and wraith-like in the flickering candlelight, clad in only a sleeping shirt that brushes his calves. “What are you doing here?”

Lafayette grins. “Hammie!” he greets again, taking one too many hurried steps forward. Before he trips over his own feet Hamilton is there beside him, wrapping his arms firmly around his waist.

A grimace spreads across Hamilton’s face. “You reek.”

“ _Salut_ to you too, _mon ami_. Come to keep me warm tonight?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, sending Lafayette into another round of giggles, but they trail off into a groan when the shaking of Hamilton’s head makes him too dizzy. “No, Lafayette. You’re attempting to commandeer _my_ room.”

“Then I can join you!” he responds happily, and burrows his head into Hamilton’s neck—not easy, considering their height difference, but worth the stretch in his back. _Hammie is so petit, he is so thin, he is too thin, where has the rest of him gone?_ But the thoughts are jumbled, a slow hum buried under his intoxication, and his voice is muffled by Hamilton’s shirt when he asks only, “You are always ready for an embrace, yes?”

“Perhaps another time.” Hamilton shifts his weight to keep himself and Lafayette standing, even as he nudges the door shut with his foot. Lafayette turns his head to watch the proceedings and makes no move to help assuage Hamilton’s grunts of exertion. But when Hamilton moves his shoulder his shirt and loose hair rustle and the light flickers, and—

His gaze is caught by a blemish on Hamilton’s neck: roughly elongated, vaguely oblong, flushed wine red. “What is this?” he wonders aloud, and reaches to take a closer look.

Hamilton’s eyes widen ( _red,_ Lafayette realizes belatedly, _why are they red?_ ), and they nearly fall to the floor in his haste to bat Lafayette’s hand away. Lafayette persists, though, his hands digging under Hamilton’s to yank on the fabric. As Hamilton twists his head in his attempt to pull away, he sees it—four marks on the other side of his neck, identical in color and shape to the first.

A hand. Unmistakably, a hand.

Lafayette stills. His breath catches in his throat. “ _Mon Dieu_. Who has hurt you?” he demands, his hand shaking where he holds Hamilton’s collar.

“My business is no concern of yours.”

But Hamilton stares into the distance, seemingly frozen, and Lafayette presses. Pleading. Desperate. “ _Tell me_ so that I may tear off his limbs!”

Hamilton comes back to himself, then, wrenching his shirt out of Lafayette’s grasp. He drives Lafayette backward, guiding his steps until his back bumps against the doorframe. Lafayette barely has a moment to steady himself before Hamilton releases his waist and steps back, out of arm’s reach. His face is hard, implacable, when he finally meets Lafayette’s gaze. “It was a fight. I gave as good as I got.”

Lafayette rubs at his eyes to clear them, to focus. There are no scrapes on Hamilton’s knuckles, no bruises purpling his cheek or jaw, no suggestion of a fracture or sprain… “No,” he protests through the nausea roiling in his stomach, “I do not believe it. There is something you are not telling me.”

“There are many things I don’t tell you, Lafayette,” Hamilton retorts. “Now, please, leave me to my bed and go to yours.”

He shakes his head vigorously, ignoring the pain that spikes through his temples. “If you will not speak to me, I will get the General and you can speak to _him_. He will not allow you to be subject to such treatment—”

“ _You_ ,” Hamilton interrupts forcefully, “are not going to be responsible for disturbing His Excellency. He has earned his rest and you will _allow_ that!”

His words and his expression are vehement. But Lafayette frequently studies his compatriots, reveres them as shining examples of the America he is beginning to call his own, and despite Hamilton’s claim to the contrary, he knows this man almost as well as he knows his own heart—

And he knows that Hamilton was unmarred not even four hours prior—

And he knows that Hamilton was not at the tavern—

And he knows that, in addition to Hamilton, there are only a few who have access to the officers’ quarters, fewer still who elected for a night in over a night of drinking or whoring—

And he knows that there is a twilight lurking in Hamilton’s eyes.

He goes cold.

“ _Hammie_ ,” he urges gently, because there is a whisper in his mind, a question feeble and too slowly coalescing and he is afraid. So afraid. “We are friends, are we not? I ask such questions because I worry for you. You may tell me _anything_.”

Hamilton’s gaze softens. “We are,” he agrees, and lightly touches Lafayette’s arm. “If it pleases you, you may sleep in John’s place and keep me company. Is this an agreeable compromise?”

He curses himself because he cannot _think_ , cannot see the field laid out before him. But one thing is certain: Hamilton will not yield, and Lafayette will not abandon him to this fight alone, but he can recognize when to retreat and battle another day. He gives a small mutter of agreement, allowing Hamilton to lead him over to John’s side of the room. His body sinks heavily into the cot as Hamilton settles him on his side; despite his agitation he feels the wave of slumber start to overtake him.

Hamilton covers him with the thin blanket, and starts to withdraw, before Lafayette reaches out and grabs his hand. “You… you will find me,” he mumbles, voice slurring. “If you are hurt.”

Through his drooping eyelids he sees Hamilton swallow, his muscles working beneath the forming bruises. “You are a true friend,” he murmurs, squeezing Lafayette’s hand. It is no promise and Lafayette tries to form a response, but his eyes close and he slips into a troubled sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I'm sorry about the delay-- this was literally my fourth (!) draft of this story, and though all the drafts were in Lafayette's POV, each draft featured different characters, conversations, etc. Thanks go to [Walkerbaby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Walkerbaby/pseuds/Walkerbaby), whose amazing characterization of Lafayette in [All Things Will Kill You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8138051/chapters/18653594) reminded me of why I love Lafayette and Hamilton so much and helped keep me inspired. I don't intend for all the parts in this series to be back to back; it just sort of happened with these first three. Next installment we'll be back to the whamilton feels. You can check me out on [tumblr](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com/) for fangirling, fic updates, as well as a likely post containing excerpts from the 3 drafts that didn't make the cut and an explanation why this one did.


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